As Fate Would Have It
by Miss Andromeda Prime
Summary: Twenty year old Mia Cullen is your normal, run-of-the-mill college Junior, living in a world now reunited with the Autobots, desperate for change and adventure. Only fate would bring a strange truck driver with mysterious eyes to befriend her, holding promises of dreams and a bright future. She may find just what she's looking for. ON HOLD.
1. The Future of Dreams--Prologue

_Author's Note: _Okay, this story came to me after watching Age of Extinction, and I needed to get it out of my brain. The idea follows none of the movie, is Post Age of Extinction. This is really just one of those "everyday-life" stories, but with drama and friendship and some action, I'm hoping later on. I will be using some OC's, as well as some characters from AoE, and perhaps some others from the stories of friend's (don't panic, credit will be given where credit is due). I'm just really going to flesh this out, and I hope you guys will stick around for the ride. Could perhaps have spoilers, but unlikely. A basic understanding of AoE is advised.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of Transformers besides anything you don't recognize. Anything OC is purely mine.

PAIRINGS: None that I can really say...just there will not be romance between Human/Autobots. Purely guardian charge, and friendship.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**The Future of Dreams **

_"What about the Transformers?"_

_My entire class looked at me; whether those on the right having to turn to look left, or glancing up from their textbooks, or darting their eyes away from notebooks or laptops, they looked at me. Their expressions were the same, and one guy a few rows ahead of me dropped his pen on the ground, dumbfounded. I didn't think my homework project idea was that horrible, but it must've been. _

_ "Excuse me, Miss Cullen?"_

_I crossed my legs to get more comfortable and picked up my pen and began twirling it throughout my fingers, "You said 'write something original'. Well, the Transformers are original. Why couldn't I do something on them?"_

_My professor just stared at me as if I had turned into the very being I was insistant upon. "Miss Cullen, something of that stature would be an endeavor for a professional journalist, much less a student. I would highly advice against such a task." He shook his head, "something more realistic."_

_ "Well, you did say to dream big." I challenged politely. _

_He frowned, "Yes, I did say that, Miss Cullen. But dream within reason. There is a large difference. Such dreams are…impossible."_

_ So there I sat, contemplating perhaps the biggest academic decision I'd ever made in my career. I was on the brink of graduation—a junior in college, working towards an investigative journalism degree. My final assignment for the Creative Writing in a Professional Realm class had to be original, well researched, and an interest to recent history with value and intrigue. Some students were writing on diseases such as Ebola or Isis, but I wanted something different. Something I could relate to. _

_ I had no idea how different it was going to be. _

_ Well, the Transformers had gotten some bad publicity after Chicago, that was for certain. That negative publicity was washed away when Hong Kong happened and they regained favor with humanity. The government had recently released a statement saying that the Transformers were entering into another negotiation with the human military—NEST was reinstated. This was all great and wonderful for our country, don't get me wrong—I've loved the guys since they arrived here, we have so much to be grateful for. _

_ Without them, our planet would be ravaged, our sun captured, the Earth completely overrun with Cybertron on the horizon, and half of the United States would be melted under that awful Seed . All of this I'd heard from the internet and my studies—really, my journalistic passion—on the Transformers. If only I could sink my claws into a real interview with the director of NEST, or the President, or—God willing!—their leader, Optimus Prime, I was sure to be offered jobs from everywhere in the country. _

_ But, as my professor had stated so clearly, that was an endeavor. I was not a professional, as much as I wanted to be, and lacked tact—much less experience. No one would want to interview a silly 20-year-old Junior in college, no matter how much good publicity they'd get. It too was dangerous, I'd been told—after all, Galvatron was still out there somewhere, plotting his revenge. Best not get into the middle of it and get yourself killed like that boy Sam Witwicky almost did. Best put the dream of that aside, and focus on a more attainable dream. _

_ Well, the future is built on dreams, and I intend to hold onto mine. _

_ Even if it is in just my writing. _

_ So now, I'll trudge on, finish school, and work at the restaurant until I can figure out what to do. Meanwhile, I'll live in my efficiency apartment and continue to get good grades and pay my bills, perhaps join the gym down the street. I'll continue to tutor at the high school and visit Dad at the garage. I'll continue on with my normal life and live my adventures in my writing. Perhaps I can create my Prince Charming somewhere along the line and make him tall, strong, and handsome. Maybe along the lines of that I can have the Transformers in my work, my Mona Lisa. _

_ Maybe, just maybe, those dreams could somehow become reality. _


	2. The Beginning

**Chapter One**

**The Beginning**

I slipped out of the driver's seat of my Camaro, a 1967 cobalt blue special with racing stripes down the front and blacked out tires. A present to myself, one that my father and I had been working on since I was 14 years old. Making sure the door locked behind me, I slung my messenger bag over the shoulder and waited for my glasses to change transition, until the non-lighted neon sign reading Kenny's became darker in shade. Puffing out a breath, I crossed the parking lot dotted with patches of crabgrass threatening the concrete, until I reached the door. Straightening the crooked hours of operation sign, I pulled open the door and stepped through it.

As usual, the fan clicked on annoyingly, lacking a fan-blade ever since we'd owned it, matched perhaps only the fluorescent lights above us that flickered every so often. It smelled as most garage's wood-of sweat, grease, gas, and diesel all rolled into one. The counter, once white, was a grey color; due from lack of cleaning and grease and dust. A sashay of car parts were scattered on the countertops with scrawled pieces of paper beside them, tagged with yellow marker. The calendar on the back wall was a month behind, as were most of the bills. The computer sat dormant, as did the phone, and familiar pictures were dotted here and there around the desk-ones from long ago.

I dropped my messenger bag behind the counter, and turned on my heel to check the parking lot. The usual four semi's parked in front of their respected doors, each with a man beneath the hood-Larry, Peter, Oliver, and Jamie; the four musketeer's of the semi business, I called them. Those four heads put together could put a semi back together within a matter of hours. They also worked for peanuts, which was grand.

Walking through the door connecting the garage, I was met with a green and black Corvette, an older model-late '60's. I nodded as it sat dormant, untouched by hands for the moment, slowly leaking a fine trail of black oil into a pan beneath the lift. I walked in front of it and made my way across the shop to the last car stall, where a semi was parked casually with the hood lifted forward and a familiar body clothed in a blue cover-all outfit bent inside. Rapping my hands on the fender, I leaned against it, waiting for the grease monkey to clamber out of the engine. I heard his voice first before anything else.

"Hey, is that my punkin?" He referred to my childhood nickname, and I chuckled. Reaching on tip toes, I planted a hello kiss on his unshaven cheeks as he began to attempt to clean a wrench with an equally greasy rag. "How was school today?"

I shrugged, "College is college. Homework, more homework, and...yeah, homework." This made us chuckle and I jerked a thumb towards the Corvette across the shop, "When did the Corvette come in?"

"It's Jamie's," Dad sighed, rolling his eyes. Replacing the glasses from the top of his head, he tossed the wrench gently beneath the semi with the other array of tools and gestured me over with a flick of his hand, "It's a '69," he chuckled, "Stingray." Stepping over a garage crawler, I came up beside him and looked up the car-lift to the glistening Corvette, "Beautiful, ain't she?"

I nodded, smiling. "Sure is. Love it to death," I caught Jamie staring at Dad and I and I nodded at him, smiling. He saluted cheerfully and buried himself into the engine of a Mack truck, stepping onto the running boards and the fender to peer deeper inside. Hardly 26, he was a mechanical genius, and was a friend of the family's. "What does she need?"

"Waiting on a strut and a cam-shaft," he nodded assuredly, "but she'll get done. A job-"

"-in progress," I sigh. He nods towards the office and points now, a familiar sight between us. When I wasn't working, I was studying, as was the custom. I shrugged my shoulders forward overdramatically and kicked aside a stray screw, nodding and throwing my hands up in surrender, "I know, I know, grades don't earn themselves, and neither does money." Nodding to Oliver as he acknowledged me, walking by with what looked like a radiator hose, I smiled and stepped back into the office. I was met with a fierce bark, and the clacking of toenails on concrete. Then all at once the German Shepherd was looking at me with tender eyes, upon realization that I had returned.

"Oh, Jettison!" I waved her off with a chortle and a smile, "You know it's me." Bending to give the dog a playful scruffle, I reshouldered my bag and grabbed my keys, twirling them on my finger. Blowing the dog a sloppy kiss, I waved to Dad as he returned beneath the semi, and headed back out to the Camaro.

Dad and I had been Dad and I for as long as I could remember. Mom had died in 9/11; she was a personal assistant on assignment during the attacks. We'd lost her, along with hundreds of other innocents that day, and since then we'd been on our own. Dad had practically been breathing the garage since Mom's funeral, he hardly ever came home besides eating and sleeping and the occasional clothing change. Amongst life at the garage, Dad also did his fair share collector-car fixing and selling, as it was his passion since Mom had died.

We'd settled down in Texas, outside of Dallas. Paris was its name, and it was small, but comfortable. It was only about 25 minutes out of Dallas, which was great, considering that's where I attended college classes and worked. Not being one for the city, Mom and Dad had bought a rambler on a field, with a long swerving driveway and huge barn, with fenced in land for horses or cattle. We had neither, but used the barn to store Dad's unfinished projects, as well as the finished ones. We had a mirage of dirtbikes, ATV's, trucks, cars, car parts, boats, and other "toys" in that little barn, much to Mom's dismay, and they'd remain there until Dad decided to cash them in—or die himself, God forbid.

I drove my way into Dallas, merging off the highway, leaving the country behind me in dry, Texas dust. I made my way through the city, the less metropolitan area; until I came to Quickfly Avenue. Turning right, I followed the street to the city line, where the cozy little diner/truck-stop sat nestled against an endless sky, no buildings behind or beside it. The parking lot was lined with familiar employee cars, the back lot dotted with a few semi's holding slumbering driver's and heavy loads.

Parking beside the owner's Trailblazer, I switched the car off. Quickly piling my unruly head of coarse curls into a bun with tendrils, I grabbed the bag in the backseat and shed my boots, tossing them into the passenger seat. Approaching the back door to the diner, barefoot, I pulled open the heavy industrial door and was greated by Max and Frankie, the two cooks.

"Mia, you're here!" Max grabbed my hand in his chubbier one, "Margie's been lookin' all over for you," he waved a whisk slopped with pancake batter in the air, sending bits of the liquid flying in all directions. Some grabbed me right on the cheek, and I swiped it away, "she's getting hit hard out there!"

Max was a Hispanic man in his mid-forties, with greying black hair the color of salt and pepper now, with a long beard he always braided. He had dark skin, and was fluent in Spanish—English too, with a heavy accent. He was short and stout, rounder than he was tall we always said, but was always in a hurry and talking faster than we could hear. He was an amazing cook, and could whip up the best tacos one could ever taste in three lifetimes. He'd been with Margie for fourteen years, and wasn't leaving; as his wife Jaycee would say.

The kitchen floor was warm, spattered with long since cooled greases of all kind. I looked down, realizing I was standing in a pile of flour, and saw the mop-bucket had been dumped and abandoned in the corner, slowly leaking its way throughout the kitchen. Another one of our cooks, Lance, was busy flipping six burgers on the open grill, sweating profusely and wiping at his brow. The dishes were piled higher than the countertops, Margie quickly whipping a fork into the diasterous mess. She caught sight of me and whipped me a relieved look and pointed towards the door, her red curls bouncing around her face. "Mia! Help, SOS, whatever ya'll say anymore! We're getting slaughtered—there's hungry men out there!"

I nodded and quickly set my bag down on the countertop, yanking out a pair of K-Swiss blue and white sneakers. Slipping them on without sock's, I then hurried to the back wall where the apron's hung dormantly. Grabbing the nearest waist-apron, I plucked my nametag from the bin, scrawled the date, time, and my initials on the time-card, and hustled towards the front.

The counter was lined with four heavier set truckers, all with hats and button down shirts and cowboy boots. Empty coffee cups sat before them, one was eating Eggs Benedict with bacon. They were involved in the TV roaring above them behind the counter, blaring in the corner at its maximum volume. There was a party in the back left corner, of about seven people by the quickest count, singing happy birthday to a little boy with freckles and black hair. The other booths had random regulars; Tito, the Hispanic man aged out at 75, drinking coffee with his usual steak and French fries; Lindy, the bar-fly who was always looking for a good time and a Diet Coke; and finally Oscar, Margie's sweet admirer who was always fixing something—today, the broken Juke box in the righthand corner of the front of the diner.

Quickly, I delved into preparing coffee for the truckers at the bar, who were eyeing me as if I were an appetizer. I slammed the button to Brew, and it began pouring the steaming liquid into the pot, until Margie grabbed my arm and thrust a checkbook into my hand which was scrawled with pink ink; the pen hiding behind Margie's right ear. She thrust a finger to the kitchen-window and said, "I need four toasts with butter, darlin'. And I need it yesterday." Nodding, I fled to do her bidding, and began preparing the toast.

As I was slathering the slices with butter, Frankie grinned at me, toothlessly. He'd forgotten his dentures again today, his original teeth lost due to a head-on trucking collision some five years ago. Frankie was a tall, skinny man with stringy black hair and wrinkles, and was missing two fingers on his left hand from the said accident. He also walked with a slight limp, due to a hip replacement that never quite healed. He was a kind man, who was nothing but gentle if not meek. He nodded at me, "Howya doin' today, M?" He always called me M, after his favorite character in the James Bond series, played by Judy Dench.

I smiled at him and shrugged, tossing the knife back into the butter container and grabbing the two slices of toast. Slipping them onto my wrists, I then managed to seize the other two with my fingertips and walked out of the kitchen, "I'm okay, Frankie. Yourself?"

"Not bad, M, not bad at all!" I heard him shout over the crackling of fries lowering into a frier. He turned then with a huge meat knife and slammed it into a thick section of beef, Max behind him attempting to load up some dishes. Margie then seized my wrist and pointed to the corner of the store.

"You wanna go see if Oscar needs a Coke or somethin'? He's been fiddlin' with that box all day long and it's hotter than a pistol outside," she tapped the temp gauge beside her, "and it's not over. Then you go start up some dishes for me, got that?" She smiled at me when I nodded, and chortled, "you're a darlin', sweetie." She then grabbed my face in her hands and planted a dry kiss on my forehead affectionately, "must like your Daddy," she patted my cheek gently and turned on her heel as someone called her name, "I'm comin', I'm comin' don't get your panties in a wad."

I just shook my head and approached Oscar, who was battling the inner workings of the Juke box, laying on his back. I crouched beside the box and rapped slightly on the outer shell with my knuckles, which startled Oscar. He dropped his wrench and peered at me, and smiled, "Hiya, Mia. What can I do ya for?"

I jerked a thumb back to the counter, "Margie wants to give you a Coke or something. What would you like?"

He shrugged, "Tell her she can let me take her out to dinner and that'll do." I slapped his knee playfully and blew out a breath sarcastically, "and if she says not to that, I'll take a Coke is fine, Mia."

I nodded to him and chuckled, "Okay, Oscar. I'll let her know." Trudging to the back counter, I hip-checked Margie playfully and she gave me a look, and I began preparing Oscar's Coke. She stood straight now, tossing the dry rag over her left shoulder, and placed her hands on her hips.

"What he say now?" I glanced at her over my shoulder, the Coke chilling beneath my fingers as the glass filled. She looked over to Oscar, sneered slightly, and then looked back at me. "Well?"

"He wants a date," I shook my head disappointedly, "he'll never stop asking until you say yes."

"And I'll never quit sayin' no until he stops asking!" She bristled.

I laughed now, sticking a straw into the Coke, and set it on the counter next to me, "He's persistent, I'll give him that." I felt sorry for him and tipped my head slightly to the side as I watched him continually tinkering on the Juke box. "He's a sweet guy, Marg."

She flapped a hand at me, "Yeah, yeah, you've been sayin' that." She then stalked off in false anger and lended her ear to one of the truck driver's. He began gesturing to the kitchen and she began nodding, before spinning around and barking out an order for French fries and ketchup, with a side of bar-be-que sauce. I just shook my head at her, called Oscar over for his Coke, and shouldered the swinging kitchen door open to start dishes.

I plunged my hands into the dirty, chilled water, and stuck myself there for the next 45 minutes. Only when the last dish was complete did I venture out back into the diner, where the truckers had left, abandoning their plates. The TV volume had been lowered, and Lindy had left, as had Tito. The birthday party was beginning to pack up their individual children, and I glanced up at the clock. It was already after five.

Then, I made my way over to Tito's table and reached for his plate. A movement caught my eye, and I checked through the plate-glass window. A sparkling Western Star semi bumped along the patched parking lot, glinting in the sunlight as if new. I'd never seen quite a paint job, and so new looking! I watched as it parked across the lot, and sat for a moment, until the door opened and a man lowered himself out with a strong jump. He landed solidly, reached up to close the door, and began striding towards the diner. He had a strong gate to him, with broad shoulders, and I called over my shoulder to Margie as I turned on my heel.

"We got another!" I said forcefully, Margie looking out the window. A low whistle escaped her as he made his way in, and she shook her head from side to side, ceasing to wash the countertop. She tapped her acrylic nails on the counter and made a satisfied face.

"Mmmmhm! Now that's what I call made in God's image!" she laughed as he pulled open the door, striding into the kitchen, "see to him would you, Mia? I got some books to run real quick and I'll be out in a split." She vanished into the office, and the party exited, leaving me and the stranger in the front of the store.

I approached him and tossed a dry rag over my shoulder, leaning against the back counter, crossing my feet at the ankles, and crossing my arms over my chest. "Evenin'," I said with a smile, "the name's Mia. What can I get for ya?"


	3. In Comes A Stranger

**Chapter Two**

**In Comes a Stranger**

**...**

There was much that had happened these months.

Upon his re-ascent to Earth, Optimus Prime had realized much about this world, this corner of the galaxy that he had come to cherish. Not only had he discovered that he had missed Earth, but he had discovered Earth was beginning to feel more and more like home…and that Cybertron was ever the distant memory that it so was. Re-entry into the atmosphere had flamed his hope, his dream of seeing these humans finally at peace and forsaking war—a position he had long ago wished for his home of origin, a position he had to abandon upon Megatron's tyrannical ideals fashioned through war and violence.

He was away only six brief months; traveling the stars and the planets. He had not found what he was looking for—the Matrix within him was silent, unstirring. This was unsual to Optimus, for the Matrix always was stirring and seemingly whispering something to him, but now it had grown cold; the beginning of that icy realization surfacing only three months into his journey. The other three he visited the stars and planets as information led him there, ultimately unable to discover the threat of his Creators, such a clear and present threat; if not a warning. He'd traveled far and wide, resolving conflicts with his knowledge of politics and justice on different planets; some having to flee the hostilities. He had reunited with friends in some galaxies and had bid them to Earth, where they had arrived roughly two months before him, by his best calculations. His search, finally realizing it was in vain, and brought back the notion that Earth was where he was needed and where leadership was most required, and that it where he would return.

And so he had. Optimus Prime had been welcomed by not only his comrades, but new ones he had left behind in his memories—many of the original NEST soldiers had re-enlisted with the new negotiation, as had many more. Young, brilliant minds still bent on adventure and justice and peace, ready to do all that their country may call them to to see to that peace. He was pleased to find the new NEST base almost entirely finished, a quick assembly in the face of tragedy straight out of Hong Kong. It was larger; more spacious as it had to accompany far more members than originally intended, and far more technologically advanced—with bright new intrigue and funding, he'd been told by Sideswipe, who'd returned to them after a stasis in the Mongolia Desert.

His presence had kept him busy, that was noted. He had many reports to update, as well as the Ark's star-charts, which he had kept locked within the confines of the Matrix of Leadership—the guidance of the starry pathways, they had been called once by Alpha Trion. He had spent weeks updating them and making notes, as well as reading reports of the NEST members, including his Autobots. He'd been called to what seemed like a thousand conferences with the government and its president, hundreds of press releases had been run, and he'd been consistently keeping up with the Secretary of Defense. The Pentagon could contact him personally, via communication link, and took advantage of such an offer with weekly—sometimes daily transmission, depending on the circumstance—messages asking questions and giving updates.

It was all a very shaky foundation, Optimus had noted. He had much shattered trust in light of these humans, trust that needed rebuilt not only between leaders, but trust between soldiers. He would not subject his comrades to another war with humans based upon hasty treaties, he'd decided if not more than that. There was restored promise, though, as Cade Yeager and his family kept touch often enough and served as a reminder for the potential of the human race and their capacity for good and moral justice and humility.

At these moments, though; those moments when Optimus could take time to breath, that he found his solace. He had discovered the joys of solitude in his time among the stars; a time to think and think for himself, not for a people or planet or species. He could think of himself, what he so desired, and his personal endeavors—endeavors which had to be revived due to suppression from his leadership responsibilities. He had found peace within his time in space, and peace he so craved here, and now. It was much like an addiction; one Optimus wish he could stop, but one that he was unwilling.

So, those moments came when he could be alone—and drive, throughout Dallas, wherever he would so choose. Just him, the open plains around him, and the sky. Optimus loved these moments and cherished them, and found most of his regeneration here; far more regeneration than in stasis. He wound up different places most of the time, and observed nature—sometimes, he would park downtown and just watch people. He enjoyed this, and it sparked his hope and intrigue for the humans yet again, as well as his forgiveness and compassion.

Now was one of those times. He'd first spotted the place last week, while scouting a perimeter with Bumblebee and Drift, and had made note of the pace it radiated—it was calm, yet alive with life and vitality, but…comfortable. It reminded him much of Macadam's Oil House in Iacon; a place where he and Jazz and a few others would go to rest, before the wars and before the Decepticons; in his days as Orion Pax. He'd noted the location on his GPS and had determined to check it out on his next drive, alone.

And here was standing in the doorway, staring at what was perhaps the most beautiful thing he'd ever see: absolute quiet.

The eating establishment was empty, but had been previously occupied, as he noted dishes were still on some of the tables. The kitchen was the only source of sound; men whistling harmonic tunes as they worked and cleaned and prepared sustenance. A young woman, roughly in her twenty's he guessed, was behind the counter, cleaning and taking dishes to the back. It smelled terrifically like history; that smell that one would encounter perhaps in an aged building, that smell that ruffled his senses as a former librarian. That smell of history was mixed with the smell of grease, diesel fuel, and a light smell of perfume; a smell he contributed to the waitress, as well as the red-head who had left to the back of the building.

The theme of the diner was the open road; cemented in the fact that there was pictures of every type of classic vehicle or semi-truck one could ask for. The table tops were a hotrod red color, with grey and black vinyl chairs and booths; the floor was a white he assumed at one point, turned grey from age and wear. Posters and pictures and calendars were everywhere, as were photographs of real events. A TV hovered in the corner behind the counter, displaying a human sport, and a man was working on a brightly colored box Optimus identified as a Juke box, a music playing machine. Nodding to himself, he realized this was the absolute perfect place to be alone, to think—to observe human endeavors and learn. So, not wanting to miss anything, he walked towards the counter and slid into a seat carefully, the waitress stopping to look at him.

She leaned against the counter behind her, slapping a towel over her shoulder and crossing her arms around her abdomen, as well as her ankles. He was right in guessing she was younger; she couldn't be older than 25; with sparkling blue eyes the color of the ocean behind simple silver glasses, and light brown hair streaked with the color of honey; a wild mess of course, dry curls that were absolutely stunning. He measured her; finding her height a simple 5 foot 6 inches, and by her stocky build he guessed she was roughly 200 pounds. She smiled at him; a pretty smile that was delicate yet strong, and she tipped her head slightly to the side before looking down at her feet and speaking.

"Evenin'," she smiled at him, her voice light and strong and clear, "the name's Mia. What can I get for ya?" He was stunned by her casual conversation, as if she was talking to a long-time friend and not a stranger. She was intensely friendly and had deep eyes that he could explore all day, and she gauged his interest—immensely.

Ratchet, before his departing, had warned of their use of holoforms—they were not human forms, he had said, and thus could not intake any type of human…substance. Ratchet had calibrated them to the best of his ability, adjusting them to be able to intake only burnable fuels which would not harm their bi-pedal forms. That substance had been alcohol, something that Optimus had perhaps slightly missed. He'd never been much for drinking, but enjoyed the occasional drink with his friends on Cybertron. Here was no exception, save for Jazz no longer alive. So, he took a moment to think, and then finally answer her, a bit confused as if he should offer a name. He decided to answer her question with another question first and see where that would lead.

"What types of alcohol do your offer?"

She raised a brow behind her glasses and shrugged a shoulder, "Just about any kind," she walked by him towards the freezer build into the countertop behind her and pushed open the stainless steel lid, "what would you like?"

Quickly referencing the internet, he chose something a bit stronger, but not overpowering. His response came out more of a question than an assured statement, "A Miller High Life?"

She smiled, plunging her hand into the cooler, "Ah, a Miller guy. Right here," she quickly pressed the top against the edge of the table, popped off the cap, and slid it across the smoothly worn countertop to him. Optimus outstretched a hand slightly and stopped the bottle gently. He watched the amber colored liquid foam and then settles slightly, before she appeared in front of him again. "You want a glass?"

He shook his head and put up a hand, "No, thank you. This is fine."

She nodded, "Right then. If you need anything, just holler at me," she then tossed the rag beneath the counter and sauntered into the kitchen, where she started conversation with one of the men, a stout Hispanic with his hands in a heap of ground meat. She started replacing dishes, talking quickly, until the man said something funny. Then she started to laugh, her eyes laughing along, until Optimus swore she had to have been a being of another world.

He sat there, unwavering for a few moments. The quietness around him was astounding—never had he experienced a quietness in civilization where life was present. Sure, his drives were quiet enough, but he was alone. He was not around other life forms. But here, there was a peaceable gentility; the kitchen now quiet as the waitress—Mia, she said her name was—came out to start clearing tables. Optimus watched her pass by and inhaled her smell—he identified it as coconut nectar. It swirled his sense and he swore there that he had never smelled something so heavenly.

Then at all at once, that silence was broken a the bustling, heavier set red-head emerged from her hiding place. Her presence was striking, much like that of the Wreckers: boisterous, loud, but enjoyable. She marched around the kitchen area, clapping the cooks on the shoulder and asking questions, pointing and making observations—Optimus suddenly realized that she was owner of the establishment when the men referred to her as a "ma'am," and nodded to her in their understanding. She was in the kitchen roughly five minutes before she noticed him.

Upon noticing him, she smiled—beamed, actually—and hurried out of the kitchen. Making her way behind the counter, Optimus looked over his shoulder slightly to glance for the other girl, Mia. She was on her hands and knees picking up strayed food particles discarded on the floor, until the piercing scent of lavender and vanilla overtook his sense. He immediately drew back to the woman, who was smiling at him still, making him suddenly feel exposed and uncomfortable, which were traits he not often felt.

"You got everything you need, hon?" She asked, a thick southern accent dripping off her voice. Optimus noted she was older, probably in her mid-fifties; with big curly hair pinned back in at least six or seven places. She had gold-flecked brown eyes, a round face, and was short—roughly 5 feet tall. The red head was stout; stouter than the waitress, by far, and wore handfuls of rings in everyplace on her fingers, matched with large earrings. She had on a grey tank top, with a denim long-sleeved button down, and faded Wranglers with worn-out tennis shoes. A pair of magnification glasses were perched on top of her head. Startled by this obtrusively interesting woman, he blinked and nodded. She smiled at him and winked, slapping the counter before him, obviously satisfied, "Well good then." She walked away, farther down the counter, and stopped at the computer. Punching a few things in, she looked back over to him and wrinkled her brow—wrinkles appeared around her eyes, adding to her features, Optimus noted. "You got a name, hon?"

Optimus realized she was calling him a name of affection, something he had never experienced. He'd been called Prime, or Optimus, or Commander—but never "hon", or any other form of pet name. He attributed this fact to the observation she was a southern woman, finding that is how they most often spoke, and forgave her the grievance. He decided to use a name no one would be familiar with. "Orion, ma'am."

He nodded to her and lifted the drink to his lips, his first in many, many eons. Taking a slow gulp, the liquid burned a trail down his throat—a fiery taste he'd never tasted before, his first holographic experience drinking human liquids. It was disturbingly—yet wonderfully—cold, and left a taste in his mouth her rather enjoyed. The smell overpowered his senses, and soon it was all he could taste or smell. It was delightfully intriguing, this experienced, and he at once praised Ratchet for the discovered invention. His old friend was in need of thanks, that was for sure. Being human was one thing, but doing human things was quite another.

This made the woman chortle deeply. Her voice was raspy and deep, but smooth, oddly. "Mmmm, that's a nice one," she winked, "masculine. Strong. Don't think I've ever met anyone by that name before." She sauntered back over, a cleaning rag and glass in her hand. She set the glass down and extended a bedazzled looking hand, "Margie. Good to meet you." Looking at her hand, he raised his own and clasped it, and she shook it once, firmly. Releasing, she drew it back and picked up her glass again and smiled at him, falling back against the counter. The other girl slipped into the kitchen, eyeing him, before vanishing.

"As to you, ma'am. You own this establishment?" He lifted the alcohol and took another long swig, her watching him and nodding, as if satisfied herself. She then chuckled and tossed the rag under the counter again, replacing the glass. Crossing her arms, she closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

"Sure do, going on…" she looked to the sky as she figured, "….well, I'm 56, and opened this place when I was 19. You do the math."

37 years, impressive indeed. "You've done well," he looked around casually, "it is a fine place." The look on her face made him wonder if he'd misspoken, so he recalled his words internally. No, he'd said everything right, and his comment could not have been offensive—at least, he hoped it wasn't.

"You from around here, darlin'?" She had a look of puzzlement on her face, and Optimus was quiet. This question was always difficult, one he found most challenging to answer, so he decided to go with the most logical, safe answer. One that would be truthful, but not entirely…honest, if that made sense to anyone but him.

"Not exactly. I've been in Texas roughly four years," counting the three he'd been exiled from the government, and the six from his return, he was close in approximation. She nodded in understanding, and he took another drink. This was the last of his beverage, he realized, and she had already popped another open before him before he could even set the empty bottle down. Upon doing so, she snatched it and slid it across the counter to the waitress, who caught it expertly.

"Toss that for me, would you, darlin'?" Margie looked at the girl, who smiled and nodded. Margie then turned to him upon her exit and wrinkled her face up with a smile, "she's a doll, ain't she?" Hopefully a rhetorical question, but upon her silence and stare, Optimus realized it was not.

"She is attractive, yes." It was no lie—her presence was astounding, almost whimsical. She changed the atmosphere around them, he noticed, something only a few people could manage in their lifetime with him. Alpha Trion, Sentinel Prime, and Ratchet had been among those small few. Margie chuckled and shifted her weight on her feet.

"Hard worker, too. She's been with me for three years, bless the girl's heart." She looked through the window as the girl came around the corner with a stack of napkins, "Puttin' herself through college, along with some help from her Daddy. Smart as a whip—and just as sassy." She turned to him, "So, what're you hauling?" She nodded towards the window, towards his bi-pedal.

A common question, and he answered the same every time. "I work for myself," he said casually, "a family business." Which was no lie. The Autobots were the closest thing he had to an actual family, and they were important to him. He did work for himself, for he answered to no one being Prime. The answer was honest, informative, and innocent.

She nodded slowly. "Gotchya. Comin' or goin'?"

Again, he answered the same, "Coming." Where else where he go, besides to the outskirts of the city? He dared not stray far, less the Autobots actually need him, and he was not keen on the idea of leaving them alone with a new base for so long just after his arrival. Mia, the girl, joined them and slipped between their conversation, towards the register. She began ringing something in and then slowly walked to join them. She seated herself ontop the counter adjacent from Margie, and began to swing her legs slightly. This obviously did not bother Margie in the least, for she said nothing.

"I'm finished with the evening work," Mia added. Her voice was clear, strong, and resonated with his spark so much so that it quavered within him. He perked up at her voice and then looked to Margie, who smiled to her and nodded once, gesturing to the kitchen.

"Alright then, crack open that literature book and let's finish with that story!" She was excited, just as a child would be upon realization they were going to get to hear a tale. Mia nodded and slipped off the counter, vanishing yet again into the kitchen. Confused, Optimus listened as Margie made herself a glass of Coke, making another for what he assumed Mia, as he took another draw on his Miller. It continued to burn a path down his throat and settled in his abdomen, which felt good after long separation with the substance. It was a feeling he missed, and could get used to. It instantly brought back memories of Ratchet and Jazz, his old Macadam's friends.

Margie began, "She's taking this classic literature class," Margie began to shake her head and laugh now, "and she's excited. She's learning so much about fiction stories and historical literature it ain't even funny. Havin' a ball, too. Haven't seen a kid so caught up in homework before since that girl." She shook her head as she came back, sipping her Coke, "and she's writin' herself through school, dang that girl she's got some talent. Everyone in the writin' world is gunna want her at their hands, that's certain, for sure."

The kitchen door swung open as she stepped back through it, a bag draped over her shoulder. She rested it on the counter and scanned the parking lot, reaching inside for a notebook, pen, and a literature book. Optimus peered at it, and found it was positively destroyed.

The pages were frayed, and types of paper and placemarks stuck out of it from every direction—and in every color and size. The cover was wrinkled from use, the spine falling off the book, and the front cover was partially torn. She opened her notebook to a page marked with a green piece of paper, and he found her notebooks were no better—highlighted and marked on almost every square inch of space in the most beautiful handwriting he'd even imagined. It instantly reminded him of the workings of Alpha Trion, the scholar, who kept the Covenant of Primus and added to it with a quill device. Memories flashed into his mind.

Mia stopped when she noticed him staring, in the middle of turning a page. "What did you say your name was?" Her clarity and resonation caught him off guard and he found himself offering no alternative but to answer her.

"Orion," he said calmly, and without properly thinking, added, "as in the constellation."

This caught her attention and she dropped her page, and her eyes began sparkling wildly, filling with excitement. He'd never seen something more beautiful than a face willing with pure wonder and excitement, it was glowing all over her face now. A smile spread onto her face and she was blushing now, he realized. "That's….that's absolutely beautiful."

He chortled now, finding it funny. "Thank you. I always thought so."

Then, her face contorted, and she looked appalled. Margie was snickering into her Coke now, "Good Lord, did I actually say that? I'm sorry! I didn't mean for it to sound so…feminine." Now, she blushed profusely, her cheeks a spectacular shade of pink. He'd never seen something so pure. She gave him a genuinely apologetic look. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head slightly, "Do not apologize. I am flattered."

"The man's 'flattered'," Margie set her Coke down a little bit roughly and crossed her arms, "you are not from 'round here, sonny. You talk…funny, like some guy from a fairy tale book." She shot a look to Mia, and gestured to him, "doesn't he?"

Mia, horrified, sprang to his defense, "Margie! You can't—" she sighed and shook her head, "he speaks eloquently. Obviously educated," she looked to him, "where you educated at Harvard? Princeton?"

He laughed now, "No," he said, searching for an appropriate answer. How could he describe his knowledge having come from one of the previous Thirteen? He thought a moment before finishing. "I was educated by a great scholar, and friend." This obviously sat well with her and she looked back to Margie.

"It's wonderful," she looked back to him, "the way you speak. Very strong, clear. Inspiring." She jotted down something in her notebook, and then looked up at him, dropping the pen, "More inspiring than I would've liked to see in a real person."

He instantly regretted the holoform at this statement, but forced it away, "Again, I thank you. I apologize, what did you say your name was?" He lied, searching for a change of subject. She straightened at this and Margie nodded, then wrinkled her face and raised a hand slightly. Optimus realized the phone was ringing, and Mia was blushing again. Margie excused herself to answer it.

She shifted her weight, perhaps uncomfortably. "Oh, yeah. Mia. Mia Cullen," she extended a hand. He shook it, firmly, and found she did not relinquish as most women would. She was strong, solidified in her tone and presence. "Orion. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to use that somewhere, sometime."

This painted a smile on his face, "I would be honored if you did so." She smiled again, this time light consuming her face brightly. His spark was almost on fire, the warmth there was absolutely unbelievable. The Matrix within him hummed so greatly he thought perhaps maybe it was echoing off the walls, but it obviously wasn't. Something about his girl was vital; important, something he could not place.

"I will then." She stated simply.

The bi-pedal suddenly signaled him to the fact he had a transmission, and this he regretted. Most often these transmission required his immediate attention, and return, to base. Checking the comm, he realized it was from Crosshairs. He initiated a cell phone into the hologram and pulled it from his pocket, accepting the comm, as Margie called for Mia in the back. She whisped away, with a quick excusal request, and he pressed the phone to his holographic ear and listened. Keeping his voice low, he said.

"This is Prime," he said carefully, watching the kitchen, "Report."

Crosshairs was frustrated, as was normal with him, as he replied, _"Well, I'd hope your Prime, this is your frequency," _This made Optimus roll his eyes and sigh slightly, _"Anyway," _he continued, _"you anywhere nearby? These frags need a debriefing, and the Director is here—unexpected," _This made Optimus bristle, "_she wants to talk to you—like, NOW. She's made it abundantly clear she to the rest of us." _There was a shout in the background, and then the sounds of voices, Crosshairs mumbling under his breath. "_...just, get here as fast as you can, before Hound blows her to kingdom come. Crosshairs out."_

Replacing the phone, both women were in the kitchen discussing some topic with colorful gestures and facial expressions. Margie caught sight of him as he stood, and she ushered Mira out to see him. Stepping through the door, she put up a hand and grabbed the empty bottle, giving him a genuine smile.

She turned the bottle over in her hands, "Don't worry about anything," she shook her head and waved him off gently, "I'll get it."

Surprised, he rebutted, "I couldn't let you-"

Mia gave him a soft smile and wrinkled her nose tenderly, "It's okay. Let me use your name in my next piece and we'll call it even," she winked at him and turned on her heel, "Thanks again. See you around?" It came out as a question, and she stopped the door, with her heel. Optimus wondered-perhaps hoped-that she looked at him with hope as he contemplated his answer, realizing she was waiting for one.

With a gentlemanly respectful nod of his head, he stepped half a step backwards, slipping his hands into his pockets casually. "I thank you, Miss Cullen, for your kindness." She smiled at him, blushed again, and asked the question yet another time.

"You'll be back, right?" She sounded hopeful, "I'll have a piece written-maybe you'll be in it," she then grinned at him, "and I'll need an opinion."

He nodded gently and smiled softly at her, "Perhaps I will,"

Mira shrugged a shoulder and pointed up to a sign above the kitchen door, "Well, once you come to Margie's, you never don't come back." Then, nodding at him, "See ya later, Orion. Thanks for stoppin' in." Then she walked through the door and he turned on his heel, the words of the sign ringing in his mind, as was the strange girl he was most immensely curious about:

_Come a stranger, leave a friend. _


	4. It's in the Stars

**Chapter Three**

**It's in the Stars**

I heard the bell dingle above the door, signaling the stranger with the strangely beautiful name-had left. Hurrying to the kitchen window, I watched Orion cross the parking lot to his Western Star, where he climbed inside and popped the door closed. I imagined the engine fire to life, felt the shift as the truck switched into reversed, and tried to hear the soft rumbling as the truck jerked back into park and crawled into a slow drive. I watched him for what seemed like hours, until his tail-lights were gone down the road, swallowed up as the buildings hid the massive semi.

There was something about him, I noted, that made writing soar within me. He was like a novel character; a strange, mysterious man with kind eyes just waltzing into the lady-in-waiting's life to throw it into an uproar. Though, I highly doubted that Orion was much more than an average truck driver, he sparked something within me nonetheless. Turning to lean against the window's counter, I absentmindedly folded the dishtowel over and over in my hands, a grin plastered on my face. I didn't realize I was covered in suds from dishes, or that my glasses were speckled with dried water marks.

Max chuckled across the kitchen, making me look up from my feet. He shook his head from side to side and tossed a spatula on the increasing pile of kitchen dishes, before grabbing the stack in his chubby hands. Furrowed my brow at him, I approached the dishwasher, pulling the now clean rack of dishes forward before pushing another into the machine.

"What?" I asked him, frustrated. Glancing towards the office, I watched as Margie closed it with a quick hand before she waddled back out to join us. Frankie was ignoring us, busy with his tomato washing and chopping. Margie came, rested a hand on top of the counter and propped the other on her hip. "Why are you all looking at me like that?" They all had been staring at me as if they could see exactly what was running through my head-an idea which slightly unnerved me.

"Hehe," Max giggled now, deeply. His accent was thick, "You fell hard for that one," he shook his head from side to side and began sorting dishes, dropping a knife on the ground, it skidding over towards my feet quickly. I bent to grab it, then stood quickly and tossed one of the fallen curls from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

"What do you mean?"

Margie looked serious, as Max just laughed and hurried away as fast as his stout legs would carry him, "Honey, your Daddy would kill you if you even thought about a truck driver. He'd plain skin you alive."

Tossing the knife into the bucket of silverware soaking on the floor beside the dishwasher, I replied, "What are you talking about, really? I have no idea." Margie quickly crossed her arms and gave me an unconvinced look. Completely offended, I threw my hands into the air, "Marg!"

Margie shook her head and walked towards the door, and elbowed it open. I quickly followed, then rounded the counter and seated myself on a bar-stool, before my literature homework. Grabbing my pen, I stuck it behind my ear, and continued leafing through the pages. Margie leaned forward against the counter, her full chest spilling over the edge, "You know darn well what I'm sayin', sweetheart," she looked out into the dining area where Oscar had now vanished, "you ain't the truckin' type of girl. I know that life, I lived it-you got way too much spunk and spirit."

It finally clicked in my head and my mouth dropped open. "Wait-you mean-you think? _What_?" I dropped the pen quickly, "Margie, no. _No. _I wasn't thinking anyth-"

Margie shot me a cross look, "Don't you dare lie to me, Mia Cullen! I've been watchin' out fer you since you've been a toddling mess of curly hair," she pointed a warning finger at my, "and I'm a woman, by and by. I know a look on a girl's face when she thinks a man is somethin' else. And it was all over your face, plain as day."

My face began to burn in a blush-so my intrigue had been noticed after all. I cursed myself for such blatant emotions, praying the stranger Orion hadn't picked up on my girlish flirtations. Frowning at Margie, desperately to justify and defend myself, I replied, "Margie, really. I wasn't thinking anything of that sort." I then started to flip through the pages of my notebook to cover up the blush on my face, my hands slightly trembling now, "I mean, he was attractive, but-"

"-he was a bit more than attractive, Mia." Margie came around the counter and slipped into a seat beside me, wrapping a thick, chubby arm around my shoulders. They sank forward in defeat, and she pushed the book away from me a few inches. Defeat slowly crept into my soul, as did the familiar emotions that I'd battled most of my life, "He was handsome. Dashing even. And he liked you-he had stars in his eyes every time he looked at you. But let me warn you, men like that are dangerous." She clucked her tongue and sighed deeply, "and you've got a bad habit of pickin' men that aren't good fer you."

I quickly looked away. "I don't want to talk about it, Marg." I slipped out of the seat, "My one attempt of trying to be a grown woman and I have everyone in my life crawling down my throat about it." Packing up my things, I dropped them behind the counter and retrieved a bottle of glass cleaner and a cleaning rag, tossing it over my shoulder. Stuffing the bottle into the front of my apron and re-pulling my hair back into a bun, I mumbled,"I'll clean the glass."

"Mia-"

I stalked towards the door and pulled it open. "I'm outside if you need me." Then, I was out the door.

I spent the greater part of the evening cleaning glass, wiping away fingerprints of previous passerby's that had left their mark on the place. Tears burned in the corner of my eyes until finally I couldn't keep them in anymore. Rounding the corner of the building, I made sure I was out of earshot and eyesight and fell against the brick of the building, resting my head against the cool brick. I swallowed the lump in my throat and considered Margie's statement-I _did _have a bad habit about choosing men that were bad news. Always the cavalier ones with promises and sharp eyes.

How desperately I wanted a man in my life. I'd been alone most of my childhood-no siblings, just me and my father. True, I wanted the love that came with a man, the adoration. Movies, novels, fairy tales all held the same promises that I, and so many others like me, so desperately craved-I'd actually written some of those stories, some of those promises had been in my heart and overflowed in the lives of characters better off than I was.

I was merely the mechanic's daughter, struggling my way through school, working the truck-stop. Really, I had nothing to offer men besides my soul, emotions, and body-perhaps, someday, my writing ability, once I graduated. Really I wondered most of the time if my body was even good enough for a man-at this question I looked down and speculated, then closed my eyes and let it fall against the building again.

I had never been the super-model type. Being 5 foot 6 inches, 220 pounds, I wasn't one that would catch your eye as you walked by me. Both of my parents had German blood, and everyone knew German women were not little women. I had strong, thick shoulders, accompanied by a slightly hourglass figure: a wide upper body that sported a voluptuous chest, a slightly thinner midsection (save my untoned stomach) and then wide hips. I absolutely did not have the body of champions-I simply had a body, and that was it.

People all my life had told me I was beautiful and had a beautiful soul-but those had been compliments forced out of friendship and compassion. I knew all my life I had been graced with unfortunate looks-I had intensely blue eyes and that was it. A round face, extremely curly, coarse and wild hair, and a body that a dying woman wouldn't even bargain her life for. Sinking down the wall to my bottom, I pulled my knees to my chest as far as they would come.

I cried for a while, wondering why on Earth God had even placed me here if I was going to be alone forever. I had believed for the greatest time that God had created me perfectly, so beautifully in His own imagine, and that He had someone for me that would love me and adore me like I had so desired. But, upon my 20th birthday and third-as well as final-letdown when it came to the man area, I'd firmly decided that I was not good enough for men in this world, and I'd exiled myself from the idea of happily ever after.

I was the stepsister of the fairy tale called life, watching as all the Cinderella's dressed themselves in size 2 dresses and found their Prince Charming's. I watched as they rode away in their Pumpkin-Carriages, awaiting the romance of the dance. My Prince always appeared right in front of me, only to vanish on the chiming of midnight, leaving me alone in my best attempt to be the Princess-when in all reality, I was the stepsister in denial.

The neon of Margie's sign flicked on, the red beaming around the corner and casting the beautiful scarlet reflection around me. Quickly pulling out my cell-phone, I checked the time and found it after seven. Pulling myself together, I used the end of my t-shirt to wipe my eyes, and gathered the towel and cleaning supplies and went around the building to enter from the back, where my Camaro was sitting silently. Giving a small smile to the car, I sniffled and pulled open the door.

At least I had the dream car.

...

At ten after midnight I said a shallow goodbye to Margie, Max and Frankie, throwing my things into the passenger side of the Camaro. Firing it to life, I backed out of my parking spot and roared out of the parking lot. Greasy and exhausted, I drove home half-aware of my surroundings until finally I came to the drive-way with the jerry-rigged mailbox. Turning left, I slowly made my way over the pot-hole, and weaved my way down the driveway.

Parking beside the tree, I exited the car and crept my way into the house. The living room and kitchen were dark, but upon entering the house she found the den's light still ablaze, telling me Dad was still awake and probably doing the books for the day. Deciding not to disturb him, I made my way across the house to my room, and gently closed the door.

I tossed my bag onto my computer chair and let my curls down, making my way to the attached bathroom. Plugging the tub, I ran water for a bath, and added some salts and oils. As it filled, I lit some of the candles around my room and awakened my computer, where I had two messages from my best friend in Arkansas, and one from my math professor, explaining a change in the schedule. We had no class tomorrow, due to his wife's unexpected induction into labor for their fifth child. Shrugging off the message, I deleted it and sank myself into the bathtub in the bathroom, closing the door and locking it.

I spent over an hour in the tub, listening to a mixture of classics and country music, letting the steam of the burning hot water trace its way through my senses. It calmed me, and I rinsed the dried tears from my face, washing and allowing the oils and salts to cleanse my skin. Once the last of the curling conditioner was gone from my hair, I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel, draining the tub. Opening the door, the steam released from the room and I approached the floor-length windows, and cranked them open.

Darkness had overtaken the skies now, the vast expanse of fields now hidden from eyesight. Stars had seized the sky, leaving pinpricks of heavenly starlight from the worlds above to cover us in there dazzling array of beauty. I'd always enjoyed the stars-astronomy had been my favorite part of science, and I'd taken all of it I could through highschool, and studied it in my leisure. If not for the PhD astronomy required for a profession, I would've majored in the area, but instead decided to pursue my other passion.

I seated myself on the ottoman situated beneath my window and patted my curls dry. Reaching for the bottle of leave-in conditioner, I ran some through my hair and tied it up onto a top knot, letting the breeze of the night dry the driplets of water. I sat there, for what seemed like hours, searching for constellations. Finally, the moon peeked out from behind a patch of clouds and I smiled, before getting up and falling into bed in my robe.

...

Optimus had returned to base, greeted the President and the Director, and had retreated into the Autobot half of the NEST base. Despite the consistent protests from his comrades, he'd locked himself away in his "office" type prison, alone with his thoughts and whatever work he had to attend to. Forgoing the idea of work after such an intriguing day, he had opted for online research.

Breaching the network had been firmly forbidden by the U.S. government, but the Autobots had abilities that government very easily underestimated. They had not informed the government that they possessed the ability to breach the network and erase their presence, so adept was their capabilities in the area. This was for the betterment, Optimus had decided, and allowed only such breaches when was absolutely necessary for the team's safety.

But, today was not one of those instances. He was increasingly curious about this girl he'd met at the truck-stop. He'd forced himself upon disabling the holoform to forget her, that he met people like her every day in holoform-but then quickly took back such a thought with the rebuttal that no, he didn't meet people like her everyday-actually, he'd never met someone like her yet on this planet.

She had striking eyes-eyes that plunged him into an entire new realm of reality. They made him second guess his decisions, and wonder if he was even the holoform at all, of if he was in his true essence, Cybertronian form and all. She extracted the truth from him, and convicted him of his lies-all in one pair of eyes, so hidden behind glasses, and towering insecurity, he'd noticed. She had eyes likes stars-so fiercely competitive for attention, but so innocently pure and sparkling with life and vitality.

He breached his way into the deepest darkness of the government's systems. Here he'd managed to run her fingerprints, which had captured from the first Miller bottle and scanned, and used them in the system of the law enforcement office. Instantly they identified a young girl, twenty years old, living in Paris, Texas. Her driver's license picture matched that of the face he'd met today, a smiling girl with the same bright eyes and beautifully untamed curls.

He read all he could of her, Orion Pax coming to life within him. It had been so long since he'd researched, so long since he'd read data that had fed his starving desire for knowledge. It rekindled that starvation, and Optimus Prime could not get enough reading. He read well past dark, until he could find nothing more on the girl and had finished reading her college demographics.

It was a shame, how all this paperwork echoed itself. It possessed all the same information, offered nothing new on human people who had diligently handed over such information to their government leaders. He desired to know more than just physical description; he wanted to know the depths of her thoughts, her views politically, her dreams, desires. He wanted to know what made her passionate, what made her write like she did (which was quite amazing, since he'd managed to find some of her work through her school). Essentially, he wanted to know what she was made of and what set her apart from the other femme's he'd met in this place.

A firm knock on the door startled him, so much so that he erased the files and stood himself from where he had been sitting. Turning, he looked out the tall window he'd requested be installed for him, and signaled the stranger to enter. "Enter." It sounded informal, cold, and insensitive.

"Sensai," the voice belonged to Drift, the ex-Decepticon samurai of his comrades. An experienced killer and master at espionage, Drift was as loyal to the Autobots as Optimus was to the Matrix, firmly following him wherever they were needed. He asked no questions regarding Optimus' decisions, just did what was asked of him. Optimus was fond of Drift's ever present interest in knowledge and wisdom, and often sought him for advice outside the immaturity of the other Autobots-and, since Ratchet's departure, had turned to him on more of a friendship like basis than he would've imagined. Optimus turned to face Drift, who had his hands clasped behind his back properly, as he always did.

"Drift," he said deeply, his voice ringing more loudly than he would've preferred, "What brings you here so late?" It was well after midnight now, and Optimus had expected most of the team to be in stasis, as most of the humans besides those on night-duty did.

Drift replied quietly, "I noticed you were still awake. I came to see if something was the matter." He spoke plainly; with rich wisdom. Optimus shifted his weight on his feet and chuckled lowly, deeply. That was Drift, always worried about him.

"I am well. Are you alright?"

Drift nodded, "Yes, I am fine, Sensai. I was merely concerned for you, that is all." Optimus waited there, for him to leave for a few moments until Drift finally picked up on the idea. "If there is nothing wrong, then I will go."

"Everything is in order, Drift. Thank you for checking."

Drift turned, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Flickering his optics closed, he nodded once. "No need to thank me. Stasis well, Optimus." He referred to him by first name, as Optimus had permitted when not in the presence of the humans. Optimus nodded at him as well and chuckled lightly again.

"As to you, Drift."

He left, and Optimus turned to the window. He watched the constellations, remembering his time traveling to and from them, marking their positions in this season. He lifted a hand and rested it against the side of the window, leaning slightly against the sheetrock. He watched the starry masses for a great time before he turned away.

He left them, as he had before.


End file.
